Category: horses

Cidney’s Song

What makes a song
a song—
Something worth singing,
repeating—  
Worth sharing with others?

Sincerity.

He sings from within,
his eyes full of light,
When he sees,
When he hears,
His person, his place.

His melody holds strong,
His heart full of joy,
When he runs,
When he jumps,
His life, his love.

He writes the harmony,
His mind adjusting,
To his new role,
To his new lot,
His home, his forever.

What makes a song
a song—
Something worth singing,
Repeating—

Sincerity.
A story worth sharing.

Little Things

It’s the little things 
most don’t notice.

An ear, flicking
Listening,
To what you say.
Whether it’s voiced.
Or through movement.
Or not at all.

An eye, blinking, 
Thinking
Of what you want,
Warm and soft, full.
Or cold and distant.
Empty, unforgiven mistakes.

A muscle, twitching, 
Reacting,
To something small.
A reminder of how light,
How soft, sensitive,
You need to be.

A muzzle, blowing, 
Searching,
For anything you might give. 
Breathing into your palm, 
Or your ear. Putting you 
Back together. 

It’s the small pieces of 
Themselves. 
They so freely give,
To replace the pieces 
Of our own hearts 
That go missing. 

And it’s these little things, 
Most don’t notice. 

Maker

Imagine the carpenter
Hovering over plain, shapeless wood,
Running His finger tips over the surface,
Picturing the piece He’ll create.

Take a look at the artist,
His hand curled around His brush,
Selecting each color, pressing each stroke,
Treasuring the image on the canvas.

Be sure to watch the writer,
Chewing on the end of His pen,
Crafting the story, choosing each word,
Feeling the narrative as it unfolds.

Do your best to fathom,
How it looks when all of these combine,
Into one Master, Creator, Maker,
The God who doesn’t make mistakes.

Picture Him hovering over every piece and part,
Selecting each shape, each color with care,
Crafting every detail of every day,
Writing each moment, choosing each word.

Wrap your head around this truth,
And hold it deep inside your heart,
Even the pieces you don’t like,
Even the story lines you can’t understand,
Are still a part of His masterpiece.
Are still a part of His perfect plan.

Barn

It’s not much, but it’s everything.
The small, metal building.
It’s quiet, except for the soft
Chewing, and snorting—contentment
Saying more than noise ever could.

The world can’t reach her here,
No negativity, or questions,
No stress or doubt. It’s only
A place of peace, of dreams.
And unconditional love.

Life gets left behind, as soon
As her feet cross the threshold.
Her heart beats with purpose
In the place where hope can be held,
Even if everything else stands against it.

Truth

Spinning in circles, going nowhere fast.
Squinting, blinking, tearing up,
Trying to see through the dust.

Frustration building, tension growing,
Muscles rigid and tight.
Fighting yourself every step.

Sweat trickles down, a chill
Interrupts the heat of the moment,
Questions what the effort is for.

The sun blinds instead of enlightens.
The glare makes it impossible to see,
To think, to choose, to find, anything.

Feet grow tired, knees grow weak,
Minds fill with every fear and doubt,
Will I ever be right? Will I ever be enough?

But one slight shift, one change in perspective,
Can stop the spinning, can dry the tears,
Can lift our eyes and give us new vision.

A Hand reaches down, lifting our shuffling
Feet out of the trench we’ve created,
Clearing the dust from our head,

Silencing the thoughts of doubt,
Removing each tingle of fear,
Replacing each with a Voice filled
With nothing but pure truth.

Keep

And we’ll find a way to keep going,
Even if stop signs are in our way.
And we’ll find a way to keep loving,
Even if hate holds us at bay.
And we’ll find a way to keep believing,
Even if darkness is all we see.
And we’ll find a way to keep progressing,
Even if setbacks won’t set us free.
And we’ll find a way to keep on dreaming,
Even if it’s just one day at a time.
And we’ll find a way to keep achieving,
Even if we can’t find the perfect rhyme.

Old Friend

My oldest friend
Has never said a word to me,
But he’s the best speaker I know,
Once you’ve learned how to listen.

He’s heard every dream and heartache,
And caught every tear,
As it slid from my cheek and clung
To his coat, waiting to be absorbed.

He’s taught me more about dealing
With and living through pain,
Than anyone else could. Always
Making a lesson out of what he’s endured.

His heart is genuine, he holds no grudges.
Forgiving even those who cut him deep.
His soft muzzle nuzzling their palm,
Warm air blowing through their fingers.

He thinks he’s king, holding the herd in check.
Keeping an eye out for threats that exist,
And, for those that don’t.
But you can never be too safe.

He still runs and plays like a carefree colt,
Even though his muscles and joints tell the truth
Of the years that are catching up to him.
More days behind him than before.

Our time is shortened by each sunset,
Each passing season and star.
But for now, I’ll cling to his mane.
And listen to every word still unspoken,

Throwing in a few thoughts of my own,
Thanking him for everything he’s given.
Thanking him for everything he is and has been.

Shattered Sand

As the first beam touches the darkness,
Removing night shadow by shadow,
Rays of gold light touch down,
And hope is easy to feel.

Dreams and desires tingle at fingertips,
New chances are as close as each breath.
Energy renews, refreshing each spirit.
Beginnings seem simple to grasp.

But earth turns slightly every second,
Hiding the light beyond the horizon,
Out of reach, out of sight, out of hand,
Pink and purple streaks write the ending.

The light of the moon gives just enough
To reflect the dreams lying unfulfilled,
Illuminating the chances sitting unturned,
Failure twinkling back from the stars.

The whiteness glows against the clouds,
Outlining what will never fully be drafted,
Drawn, or said. Haunting those who look up
out of sleep, out of peace, out of try.

We let these moments slip through
Our fingers. Like grains of sand sliding out
Of a broken or cracked hour glass.
Impossible to pick up, put back, or count.

One small tap in the wrong place,
The crack ruptures, nothing can be held.
The sand mixes with shattered shards,
Splintering the hand that hopes to fix it.

Goldee

Our footsteps squish the damp grass,
The morning dew still in place.
The purple hue of early twilight
Clings to the barns, the mountains.

Her shoes click the concrete,
The noise echoes against the silence.
The rope slides over the rail,
A knot’s, gentle, but firm, hold.

The brush bristles her coat,
Dust and hay flicker down.
The pick scrapes at the mud,
Freeing her hoof from the damp.   

The saddle pad settles on her back,
The buckles of the girth snap, secured.
The bit glides into her mouth, she chews,
As first light breaks over the horizon.

A foot in the stirrup, swing over and down.
Her head lifts, her ears flick forward.
The beams reach us, glittering,
As we both look into the future.   

Cracked

The lightning spat, the thunder growled. Dogs scurried every which way, searching for shelter under anything they could find. Most of the horses cowered into the darkest corners of their stalls, seeking safety, but not him. He was unswerving, storm tested, braver than all. He was his own security. His russet head hung over the stall door, his golden eyes quiet, considerate. The rain dripped down from the cracked gutter, soaking his floppy ears and face. But he didn’t seem to mind. I had to wonder why. Could he hear my thoughts? Was he done, was this the end? Would he ever be the same again? Was that what kept him still? I realized my own face was just as drenched-but not from rain. From the burning, salty tears staining my cheeks, sneaking freely from cracked tear ducts.